


Indulgence

by pantsoffdanceoff



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoffdanceoff/pseuds/pantsoffdanceoff
Summary: Aziraphale gets a little carried away inspecting Crowley for injuries. Crowley's not going to complain…much.





	Indulgence

Aziraphale had meant to set Crowley down gently on the couch, but his shaking hands sends the demon tumbling. He tries to yank aside the layers of black silk.

“Why, angel.” Crowley’s oily smirk can’t quite hide his exhaustion. “If you’d wanted me in bed, you only had to—”

Aziraphale yanks up the hem of Crowley’s ridiculous shirt. The demon looks hale enough, but it’s not like Aziraphale would know if scales can hide injuries. He runs a gentle hand down the inside of Crowley’s hip where he’d seen the knife strike like a viper, grabs his other hip before the demon can flinch out of Aziraphale’s reach.

“You'll tell me if this hurts?” says Aziraphale.

Crowley is wide-eyed and stiff, tongue-tied for once.

Aziraphale feels carefully around the area. Miracling away wounds isn’t his area of expertise, but it’s not like either of them can afford to be discorporated now.

The scales shift under his hands, rippling under Crowley’s quick, shallow breaths. They should be cold to the touch, but like the rest of the demon, prickle with hellfire. Aziraphale palms the firmness of his belly and then returns to the curious dips that would correspond to where iliac crests would lie on a human. Adonis belts. Aziraphale had a brief dalliance once with a wrestler who had an Adonis belt so chiseled he could practically hook his thumbs in them. Shame it only lasted a decade.

He shakes his head to clear it. He’s not here to indulge in nostalgia, but to treat Crowley, who has gone worryingly still under his hands.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale says, looking up.

Crowley’s eyes are always glassy, but they shine in a way that usually means he’s two bottles deep. Two spots of color bloom high on his cheeks.

Aziraphale’s worry tips over into frustration. “Oh, for goodness sake,” he snaps, “if you’re not going to tell me, I suppose I’ll just have to—”

He meant to gently lift the edge of the scales to see underneath. The moment his thumb strokes against the direction Crowley’s scales grow, though, he finds his hands full of thrashing, writhing demon.

“Sorry, sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale pets a soothing hand down Crowley’s side, smoothing down the edges of his scale. “I’m only trying to find where she stabbed you.”

“She missed,” hisses Crowley, completely forgetting to be sardonic. He writhes like he’s never owned limbs before. “Don’t stop.”

Aziraphale blinks.

And then he palms firmly up the side of Crowley’s belly.

The effect is instantaneous. Crowley arches up, making a sound that doesn’t even attempt to be a word. The skin under his scales slicks with sweat with every rasping stroke, peeking temptingly from between his shining scales with every heaving breath. There’s something else there too.

“What’s this?” murmurs Aziraphale, uncovering what first appears to be an off-center belly button. Crowley shudders under his touch as Aziraphale rubs an exploratory finger around it, coiling around him like he’s afraid Aziraphale will pull away.

“What do you think it issss?” says Crowley, slithering under Aziraphale’s clothes, warm scales gliding against his skin, heavy in only the way twenty feet of sinuous muscle can be.

He hasn’t seen Crowley’s in full snake form in, well—his hand slips on slippery skin and accidentally dips inside the little pocket.

Crowley wails and tightens around Aziraphale. Somewhere, a seam tears.

“That’s my favorite suit!” says Aziraphale, in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice.

“I’ll miracle you a new sssssuit,” says Crowley, sounding even more drunk, “I’ll miracle you an entire new wardrobe.”

Curious, Aziraphale slowly pushes his finger in deeper. Crowley makes a high, shocked noise, followed by the sound of more seams ripping, but Aziraphale heroically forgives him and presses on. He can only fit one knuckle into the tight little hole, but it feels like it goes much deeper.

Wetting his finger in his mouth, he tries again. Crowley makes a wounded noise when Aziraphale’s finger slips in past the first knuckle, then the second, tightening in a way that would cause Aziraphale distress if he had to worry about things like breathing. But as it were, it just made the feeling deep in the pit of his belly burn hotter as he sinks further into Crowley.

There’s another hole, Aziraphale realizes.

He can’t bear to pull his finger out, slowly twisting in a way that makes Crowley twine mindlessly around him. Instead, he brings Crowley’s tail to his face, and kisses the shy little hole. There’s the scent of what Crowley always smells like, with the hint of something darker, muskier. Aziraphale dips his tongue in for taste. Crowley thrashes and trembles.

There’s something pushing from the inside. Aziraphale can’t reach as far with his tongue as with his finger, but he coaxes it gently out.

“Oh,” he breathes, staring down at the heart-shaped appendages in his hand.

“‘Sssss perfectly normal,” says Crowley somewhere south of Aziraphale’s belt, petulant and a shade embarrassed.

Aziraphale can’t help but smile. “I never said that it wasn’t,” he says, and bends down to kiss them.

They’re not as smooth as the rest of his body, spongy and delicate. He has no idea how to fit them in his mouth, but Crowley doesn’t seem to mind his clumsy attempts as he pets the bases. The snake practically ripples around him, shudders traveling down the length of his powerful body. His glossy black scales catch the last rays of the sun, giving them flash of blue iridescence, as if the flame-red belly weren’t arresting enough. Aziraphale feels a surge of fondness well within him. “What am I going to do with you?”

Crowley jolts as if he’s been smitten by an angel, jerking his tail out of Aziraphale’s reach as he spends all over himself.

Aziraphale keeps one hand petting the trembling snake, stroking a curious finger through the mess on Crowley’s belly and bringing to his mouth. He imagines it would taste like any other semen, musk and salt and perhaps a bit like the rest of the snake tasted.

But it burns like infernal fire, coating his mouth and tongue with the agony of Falling.

“What’s thisss?” hisses Crowley, outraged.

Aziraphale pauses in finding the politest way to scrub all traces of demon spend out of his mouth, to find Crowley glowering at him in what remains of Aziraphale’s trousers. A piece of wool dangles on his head at a rakish angle.

Aziraphale can’t help but smile. “What’s what?”

“Thisss,” says Crowley, ripping away even more fabric to glare down at the smooth skin between Aziraphale’s legs.

“Ah,” says Aziraphale.

Usually by the time things have progressed to the point where Aziraphale makes an effort with the fiddlier bits of human anatomy, he has a general idea of what the other person expects. Or barring that, he tends to know that the other person is generally amiable to whatever they’ll find.

Crowley does not look like he’s generally amiable to what he has found. Then again, Aziraphale would have very little idea what a demon would expect to find.

“Well, I suppose I could—” Flustered, Aziraphale miracles himself the perfumed muff of a cabaret dancer he had been friends with back in the day. Among her many charms was perfect muscle control. Everywhere. Crowley’s stares unblinkingly.

Aziraphale tries again. Perhaps Crowley would like the apothecary with a ring of spines just under his knob, or the singer with the tiny slit peeking out from behind their pole, or patternmaker who had been wetter for Aziraphale than anyone he’d had before or since.

Crowley seems unmoved. Or rather—

“Come to think of it,” says Aziraphale lightly, pretending not to see how the snake is coiled on himself, tongue flickering uncertainly, “There’s no need to get fancy. I’ve always said classics are classics for a reason.”

He miracles himself the least threatening penis he can think of. Modest, neatly-trimmed, with no curves to challenge a snake’s throat.

Crowley unwinds, opening his mouth...and yawns.

“Am I boring you?” says Aziraphale, affronted.

Crowley slithers over Aziraphale’s lap, rubbing his jaw against any skin he can find. “You sssmell deliciousssss,” he says, disarmingly honest, before unhinging his jaws to—Aziraphale swoons a little looking down that bottomless throat—scent him better.

Aziraphale digs his hands into the roiling mass of snake, and finds his wrists tangled together as Crowley loops them in a coil of his own body. He can only let Crowley glide through the curve of his hands as the snake rubs against Aziraphale’s shaft, catching the moisture that beads at the tip with that forked tongue.

Hands trapped under the heavy snake, Aziraphale nudges his hips upward, hoping Crowley will get the hint.

“Did you want sssomething, angel?” says Crowley, a hint of an impish grin to his voice.

“Oh nothing at all,” says Aziraphale, “Just hoping you’d let go of my hands so I can take care of—”

The coils tighten until the delicate bones in Aziraphale’s wrists creak. He gasps as Crowley winds himself around Aziraphale, wrapping him tightly from wrist to elbow. Crowley hisses, “If you think I’m going to let anyone touch my—I mean—you know what—” and unhinges his jaw again to lunge at Aziraphale’s flesh.

There are some things Aziraphale has never been able to train his corporeal body out of, like factory settings he can’t override: a dislike of pigeons, an unfortunate allergy to certain dyes, and an inability to keep his eyes open as two curved and venomous fangs descend upon his person.

Two very human lips wrap around his member.

Aziraphale opens his eyes in time to catch Crowley’s wink. Before he can voice his protest, however, Crowley chokes. Aziraphale groans at the rippling squeeze of muscle around his anatomy.

“Oh, you sweet thing,” says Aziraphale, and modifies things a bit, curving it down Crowley’s tight throat. This time the choke is much less feigned.

Aziraphale lets Crowley struggle to swallow him all, indulging in the hot, wet suction for a while, until he decides to take matters into his own hands.

After all, what is a bit of material weight to an angel of the—to an angel?

He tangles his fingers in Crowley’s hair, letting the snake’s own weight push him down. Crowley’s throat muscles work in overtime, swallowing down inch after inch of him until the demon’s lips touch the base, resting there like a tender kiss. Aziraphale waits for him to change his throat into something more serpentine so that he can breathe, but Crowley just grows redder, throat convulsing.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” says Aziraphale, pulling him up by the hair so Crowley can take deep, shuddering gulps of air. Crowley makes to pull off entirely, most likely to give Aziraphale a piece of his mind, so Aziraphale lets go and lets gravity pull Crowley down again.

Crowley glares at Aziraphale. Or, Aziraphale realizes with a sinking feeling, until he realizes the effect his tongue is having.

The tongue in question wraps around Aziraphale’s member. He gasps. It’s his turn to writhe as Crowley torments him, head bobbing as his tongue does wicked things, and Aziraphale tries to hang on for the ride.

All too soon, he feels the familiar clench in his gut.

Remembering the burn of Crowley’s spend, he tries to pull the demon off, only for Crowley to dart forward and swallow more of him down.

“Stop that,” he gasps, tugging on Crowley’s hair.

Crowley hisses in response, and it’s too much, vibrating right through him, and he’s peaking before he can stop it. Everything floods with the awful light of Heaven, and for a moment, Aziraphale sees Crowley as the angel he must have been, bright-eyed and rumple-winged, gasping with a mouth that would have sent Pre-Raphaelite artists running for a paintbrush, puffy and red and glistening.

The headlights of a passing car swing away, and the flat settles back into blessed darkness. A hush settles over everything, like a secret that won’t be spoken of in the morning.

Aziraphale trembles, still coming down from his peak, and kisses the tears clinging to Crowley’s eyelashes before slotting their mouths together, licking the taste of his own spend out of the demon’s mouth. He doesn’t need to see to know where the demon is, the heat of hellfire clinging everywhere they touch.

“I’ve always hated this flat,” croaks Crowley, after a while, still trembling just as hard. “Why are we here?”

“I don’t know,” says Aziraphale, “I just wished us home.”

Crowley pulls away entirely. In the dark, he could be a statue, anything from a gargoyle to the Lucifer of Liège.

“We could go anywhere,” he says, suddenly animated, “Anywhere at all. It doesn’t have to be Alpha Centauri. We could go to Tau Ceti, Betelgeuse—”

“The bedroom,” says Aziraphale. He smiles, hoping it comes across in his voice. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”

“Well, my throat _is_ sore,” says Crowley, “I don’t suppose I could tempt you to inspect it again?”

Aziraphale stands, letting the tattered remains of his suit fall. “I suppose you could try.”


End file.
